


read the obituaries (feeling jealous of the dead)

by sweetsinnerchild



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Suicidal Thoughts, a ventfic even., not a happy fic, real minor sanster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23951902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetsinnerchild/pseuds/sweetsinnerchild
Summary: The problem with people who care for you is that theycare.
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale), W. D. Gaster/Sans
Comments: 3
Kudos: 64





	read the obituaries (feeling jealous of the dead)

**Author's Note:**

> i'm not in a good place, emotionally. if the coronavirus is hitting u hard, i don't suggest you read this at all. 
> 
> this is barely beta'd, tenses are all over the place. concepts aren't fully hashed out. not my usual standard before posting but. well. what's the point.
> 
> title from "You Don't Know" from next to normal, a musical.

The problem with people who care for you is that they _care_. 

To be in someone's care is something good. To be loved is something _good_. You know this even on the worst days - that you are loved. It's something good, something to be grateful for, there are people out there without, but. 

But they care, and the problem with caring is that caring is not quiet when something is wrong. And something is wrong. 

You know that they know, that something is wrong. 

* * *

You try, well, hiding it - but not really. Hiding means going through the motions - going to the hotdog stand, going to the comedy club. Going down to the basement that you locked away, to that machine that you can never fix. 

Because maybe, just maybe - if you play your part well, no one will look closer. 

If you play your part well, no one will have to care.

It was easier underground, when there was less opportunities, when the eternal weight of packed dirt above everyone's heads encouraged the metaphorical kind of tunnel vision on their own problems. It was easier when those problems were louder and flashier than your own - to capture a human, to be a Royal Guard, to beg someone on the other side of the door for a child's survival. It was far easier for you to encourage, to assist, to agree - to do anything that wasn't related to you. 

But now the sun is shining down onto everyone, casting shadows and light through the gaps in your ribs and the holes in your skull. Maybe it also cast a light that penetrated through the thin paper of your act. 

And now people care. 

You knew, actually. There's this sense of constant awareness, that it would have come crashing down on you some day, this precarious stack of cards you set up. But on some days it felt like you were doing fine, you thought you were doing fine. It didn't even feel like acting, even.

It felt like you could entertain thoughts like - maybe if you kept it up long enough, you being fine would become a reality. 

But you knew, and you also knew that you didn't want to face it and turned your face away. You can't prepare for something you refuse to see - and that was why you were entirely unprepared when the confrontation finally came. 

* * *

With the fall of the barrier, it became painstakingly clear how banishment left the monster society several steps behind the humans. 

Monsters had magic, but magic could only do so much - and magic couldn't quite make up for the technological gap between whatever they scavenged from the dumps and the sleek shiny appliances of today. Sometimes you feel old, trying to navigate an unfamiliar computer system when you were used to the blockier kind of a system last updated decades ago - but you manage. 

You always managed. 

But other monsters are managing faster than you even though your pace is adequate, is decent, is - 

\- worrying, according to your brother. Your brother who cares. 

He tries to bring it up, tries to point it out, and you know, _you know_. The hours you keep, sleeping late and waking up at noon; the pace you plod along at, enough to see movement but not enough for actual improvement.

It's not as though you haven't seen all the mental health advice plastered across the online monster community. It's applicable, even if you're not ill. Maybe if you set up a proper routine, maybe if you set goals. 

The problem is, you don't particularly see the need to. 

The problem is, you don't particularly want to. 

The problem is you. 

* * *

"drop it," you finally say, sharp. 

There's the flash of hurt in your brother's eyes that you instantly regret. (You do love him. You do.) But his care is something you can't deal with, not at the moment. 

Or isomething you didn't want to deal with at any moment.

"ALRIGHT," he says, uncharacteristically subdued. It's an emotion you never liked seeing on him, when he's naturally loud and boisterous and everything you never can feel like being. 

It takes effort, to be all of that - but sometimes it looks easier on him. 

"SANS," he suddenly says and reaches out to pull you into a hug. "NO MATTER WHAT, YOU'RE MY BROTHER. I LOVE YOU."

It's meant to be support. Acceptance. An olive branch. 

It doesn't feel that way. 

* * *

You think -

It would be nice to have no one expect anything of you. 

No bills, no fees, no one saying words and expecting to hear words in return. No hopes, no dreams, no one following up on something you said once in a desperate effort to pass as functional - trying to help you achieve the goals you pretended to agree to have. 

It would be nice to not be a burden too. Living above became expensive and more expensive, as monsters competed against humans against fellow monsters for resources. The bed you slept in, the house you stayed in, the food you ate. Everything has a price, a price that your brother is now paying for with his new job as ambassador. 

You try to not be a burden - try to have a constant job. Try to avoid placing yourself into a position where you must ask your brother, your friends, for money. You could look after yourself, and maybe pay for some of the groceries. 

(You're managing _fine_.)

But you know, deep inside, that what you give is far less than what you take. 

And maybe it would be nice to be able to exist indefinitely in this limbo, in this act you're maintaining. To not have to worry about the future. This precarious position you were in was far from good, but the uncertain future was worse. 

Something selfish tells you you don't really have to, not with your brother's salary - but something disgusted recoils.

It insists that you maintain the formality of not looking like a leech. This much you agree with. 

(The problem is you.)

Or it would be nice to not exist at all. You think about the void then, that darkness that swallowed light and left emptiness behind - that swallowed Gaster's entire existence and left emptiness behind. 

The world kept on turning, even then. 

You tried to fix it, but there was only so much you could do. You weren't the brilliant scientist he was (or never was, now that he never existed except for within your head) and you don't have the energy, the drive, to look harder, to research more, to _try_ again.

Again, again - failure again. What's the point?

(You wonder if this means that you didn't love him enough, to bring him back. You feel vaguely guilty about it.

But not enough to bring him back.)

What's the point. 

* * *

You think about the void.

You wish you were the one who fell into it instead. 

**Author's Note:**

> for anyone who still follows me for undertale fic, this is not a comeback. but undertale will always be a part of me, i believe.


End file.
